


Drifting Through This Waking Life

by ahab2692



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dreams, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, Nightmares, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his second tour in Iraq, Brad suffers a devastating loss and decides to quit the Corps. Returning stateside, he discovers that Nate has endured his own traumatic experience, and the two grow closer in their mutual despair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drifting Through This Waking Life

There is a howling wind in the desert.

Smoke and flames rise from the wreckage of the Humvee, billowing up in a grotesque fusion of black cloud and nightmarish redness, shattering the unfettered purity of the frigid night sky. Like a dancer in the dark, the orgiastic inferno towers above the firefight, gazing gleefully down upon the slaughter, feeding off the bloodlust of the savage men at war beneath its fiery eye.

In the remains of the truck, a pair of mangled corpses crackle and pop as flickering tongues lash out, searing the flesh from the bone, reducing the bone itself to embers. The helmets are blackened but curiously intact, and they lie askew, strapped haphazardly to the dead men’s skulls like a bizarro exoskeleton; a macabre reminder that even in the final seconds of their tortured lives, these unfortunate souls were Marines. Property of their country until the bitter end.

There is the shrieking wind, and nothing else. Brad cannot drown out the cacophony. His gun is at his feet, forgotten, as his hands clamp firmly over his ears, vainly seeking the silence of a vacuum. The sound of gunfire, the residual ringing from the explosion, the screams of the wounded and dying - all drowned out. All inconsequential. For Brad, there is only the wind. Blood flows freely from the gash in his forehead, dripping down his face and speckling the ground beneath his feet. The redness is visible but for a moment, then forever lost as the cruel wind buries that human stain beneath the abundant sand. Brad can see his brothers-in-arms rotting at the base of the tower of fire in the hollowed shell of the truck. Their blood, too, will eventually seep into the dirt of this land. Their loved ones may mourn their passing, but history will forget their names.

Brad feels a sudden, startling ache inside his heart.

These men are dead and gone, and the world will turn on anyway. They’re dead and gone.

They live now, only in his memory.

***

It’s over and done with fairly quickly. The guy’s obviously afraid of getting caught, so he doesn’t bother to enjoy the moment. He just grabs Nate as he’s coming out of the bar, pulls him into the back alley with a gun pressed to his temple, and orders him to get on his knees.

Nate’s never done this before, and it’s awkward and sloppy, and the guy gets pissed off after about thirty seconds of it and decides he’d rather fuck Nate up the ass. Nate’s never done that before either, but he rides it through without a word, choosing to focus on an oddly colored brick in the alley wall instead of the throbbing pain driving through his body again and again. 

It’s rough and it hurts like hell, but then it’s done, and the guy’s disappearing around the corner, and Nate can’t help but laugh a little. A quiet, breathy chuckle; nothing hysterical or overwrought. He’s led a platoon across a desert, stared death in the face, and come out clean on the other side, only to end up here. Even lying here bleeding in an alley, he can appreciate the absurdity of the situation and find justifiable cause to laugh.

He gets back to the apartment around sunset, orders a pizza, and takes a long hot shower while he waits. He whistles while he scrubs himself clean, gazing impassively as crimson streaks run down his leg and pool in the drain. 

The pizza arrives a little late and it’s starting to get cold, but Nate doesn’t mind and he tips the delivery guy nicely anyway. He sprawls out on the sofa, wincing a bit at the pain, and flips through TV channels while he eats. He goes through half the box, and puts the rest in the refrigerator.

It doesn’t occur to him until around 1:30 in the morning when he’s lying in bed and trying to get some rest that this really ought to bother him a lot more than it does.

***

The dreams are getting worse.

For a while, Brad was able to shrug them off, and occasionally even get back to sleep afterwards, but now he wakes in cold sweats, gasping for breath like he’s starved for oxygen, fists clenching desperately at the soaking bedsheets for whatever meager comfort they can offer.

Tonight’s hallucinatory nightmare is especially vivid, and Brad wakes up trembling, his breath coming out ragged, heart pounding in his chest. He is very suddenly, acutely aware that he is alone in the dark and the silence, and he feels strangely afraid. Hands shaking, he throws back the sheets and stumbles into the bathroom, hurriedly flicking on the switch. With his back to the wall, he slides to the ground and steadies his breathing, palms swiping across his forehead. His cheeks are flushed, and his body is a furnace. 

He turns on the shower. Cold.

Standing naked in the torrential downpour, he looks at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. There is a sadness in his eyes he does not recognize; a world-weariness foreign to his own sensibilities.

He tilts his head back, allowing the icy stream to douse his flaming neck. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, then looks back at the mirror, resignedly. Regardless of the origin of these changes in his psyche, the fact remains that he can no longer distance himself from the things he’s seen and done.

So that’s it then, he thinks. He’s through with the Marines. 

He’s done.

***

Nate goes to a therapist exactly once. That’s all he needs; probably more, if he’s being honest.

“How does it make you feel?” the doctor asks, and it’s such a cliched opener, Nate almost leaves from the get-go. 

“It doesn’t,” he responds truthfully. “I haven’t thought about it much this week. It didn’t cross my mind at all yesterday until later in the evening.” He shifts in the velvet-cushioned sofa, clearing his throat. “It just hasn’t really affected my mood much.”

The doctor drums his fingers on the armrests of his chair, cocking an eyebrow disbelievingly. “I see...” he murmurs, pausing to scribble something down on his notepad.

Nate sighs, leaning forward. “Look,” he says grumpily, “I’m not here to con you out of meds, and I’m not trying to repress my emotions. I have no reason to lie to you.” He bites his lip. “I just figured seeing a therapist is...I dunno. It’s just what you do. In situations like this. You know?”

The doctor makes a soft noise of assent, but his expression remains skeptical. After about thirty more minutes of being condescended to, Nate gets fed up. He writes the man a check and walks out with a full quarter hour left on the clock. He doesn’t look back.

***

Brad calls Ray after he quits the Corps. He figures he owes him that much.

Ray takes it in stride, actually sounding somewhat relieved. Brad calls him on it.

“Don’t get me wrong, Iceman,” Ray says placatingly, his voice frustratingly soothing. “We’re less without you. But I think it’s the right move, as far as your...for you. It’s the right call for you.” Translation:  _It’s the best thing for your emotional health_. But neither of them say that out loud.

“I guess so,” Brad sighs, banging his head gently against the wall with the phone pressed against his ear. “I just never...” - he swallows - “I just never expected for it to end this way. I never thought I’d do anything else.”

“It’s hard to envision a different life when you’re living one that requires this much out of you,” Ray replies understandingly. “Go home. Hug your family. Get a job. Reconnect with the world. You’ve earned it.”

“Have I?” Brad wonders aloud. Then he hangs up. Ray doesn’t call him back, but the unspoken offer of support hangs palpably in the air nonetheless. 

Brad’s going to pass on that for now. Ray understands a lot, but what he doesn’t get is that Brad doesn’t want to reconnect with the world. He’s  _been_  connected for the past several years. And now he wants to distance himself as much as he possibly can.

He’s seen this world. He doesn’t want any part of it.

***

Nate gets a tattoo on impulse. A black scorpion, imprinted on his left shoulder-blade.

Maybe it’s a psychosomatic effect of his rage. A rage he can intellectualize, but cannot feel. A predatory arthropod seared onto his body, venomous stinger raised in defiance, is the only outward representation of any internal turmoil. Nate wistfully hopes for some sort of anger, or sadness, or grief, or despair. But all he can ever come up with is casual indifference.

His grades are still excellent. He still calls his parents every other week. His Harvard friends don’t sense any change in his behavior.

The world keeps spinning. It’s like the whole thing never happened.

***

The dreams of Iraq are worse than the experience itself. 

Brad remembers a time when he was cool in the face of pain and death, but it feels like observing the distant memory of another man’s life, rather than his own recent past. Even in his waking life, it’s often difficult to breathe. His morning runs are interrupted by unwelcome assaults upon his senses. The smell of something burning on an outdoor stove, the feeling of sand beneath his toes, the sight of the sunrise stretching up from the yawning mouth of the far-off horizon: all triggers of a manic terror that takes hours to fade.

Sometime during the fourth week of this, he drops to his knees on the cold, damp earth and feels bitter tears of frustration sting his eyes as the waves crash on the beach and blood-chilling water creeps up the shoreline to pool around his shaking limbs. He can’t do this anymore. He can’t stay here. This place is no longer his home.

He returns home, defeated, teeth chattering and legs dripping with ocean water. Even in the warmth of his abode, the feeling of aloneness overpowers the heat and sends a chill up Brad’s spine. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders and curls up in the corner of his bedroom, rubbing his feet together to brush the sand off his heels.

The walls are bare, save for a single, unframed picture of the 2nd Platoon taped crookedly to the wall above Brad’s bed. He looks at it unseeingly, gazing past the photograph and into the desert. Into the howling wind.

His gaze snaps into focus as he zeroes in on Nate. The throbbing in his eardrums dies away and he finds that he can breathe easier.

His eyes close tiredly as the forgone conclusion cements itself in the darkness of his unconscious. At any other point in his life, he would have repressed any ideas in this vein of thinking, but his desperation has peaked and he needs...something.

So he calls Ray and gets Nate’s cell number and address and books a one-way ticket without stopping to consider the logical end of this line of decisions.

***

Nate probably should be surprised when he answers the knocking on his door and finds Brad standing there with a duffel bag in hand, but he can’t quite bring himself to feel anything but relief.

“Sir,” Brad mumbles, uncertainty apparent in his expression.

Nate sees, and immediately registers that he doesn’t like that look, so he steps across the threshold and pulls Brad into a hug. Firm and warm, and it’s about as right as the world has ever been for as long as he can remember.

“It’s good to see you,” he murmurs in Brad’s ear, squeezing his shoulders affectionately as he steps back. He can see the tension drain out of Brad’s body, and it makes him grin. It’s been ages since he’s smiled.

“Likewise, LT,” Brad replies, and he’s grinning too, a hint of mischief dancing behind those eyes. He glances through the door and raises an eyebrow expectantly. “So, are you going to invite me in?” 

It’s a serious request, but Nate can hear the humor behind it, and he allows himself to chuckle before saying yes and ushering Brad inside.

***

They go out for a beer, and it’s a lot less weird than Brad imagined it would be. After the initial shock of seeing Nate living in such a domestic setting, it begins to feel just like old times. They make small talk, which under any other circumstances would be insufferable for both of them, but plays out here like the sharing of one another’s burdens. For once, their minds are occupied by something other than the crushing weight of oblivion.

It’s not until they’re walking back to the apartment that Nate brings it up.

“What happened to you?” he asks softly. His tone isn’t tentative, but it’s not a command either; firm enough to convey genuine concern without too much force behind the inquiry.

Brad shrugs, not quite meeting Nate’s eyes as he shoves his hands into his jean pockets. “Not sure what you mean, sir.”

Nate’s lips curl upward in a small, sad smile that says  _Come on. You’re too smart to play this game_. “You’re here,” he says simply. It’s not really an observation, but it’s not completely a question either. Brad says as much.

“Is that a question?” he replies, trying and failing for a joking tone of voice. When Nate doesn’t say anything, he sighs and kicks a pebble into the nearest storm drain. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Nate’s arm reaches out halfway in an aborted gesture of encouragement. He lets it drop uselessly down by his side. “Yes,” he says encouragingly.

Brad runs a hand over his eyes, breathing deeply. Steeling himself, he looks at Nate directly. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he says honestly. “Not exactly, at least. I just...” - he trails off, thinking about his choice of words - “...I just don’t want to fade away.” 

Those last words come out in a whisper, and Nate looks surprised. “What do you mean?”

A pause. “I quit the Corps.”

Nate nods. “I know.”

Brad’s eyebrows shoot up. “You do?”

“Ray told me.”

“Ah.” Brad shuffles his feet awkwardly, looking at the ground. “I guess he told you that I asked for your address?”

Nate shakes his head. “Nope. I didn’t know that until you showed up on my doorstep.” He stretches out his arm again, following through this time and giving Brad’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It’s good to see you,” he says firmly, echoing his own words from earlier.

Brad smiles gratefully, understanding that Nate’s letting the subject drop. “Likewise, LT,” he says teasingly. Nate aims a playful kick at his knees, and they head off down the sidewalk, falling back into the comfortable rhythms of casual conversation.

***

After two weeks, it becomes suddenly apparent that Brad isn’t leaving anytime soon.

Neither of them say anything about it, but strangely, it doesn’t feel like something they need to talk about. They fall into routine of sorts: Brad sleeps on the pull-out couch in the living room, and Nate sleeps in the adjacent bedroom with the door open. Nate goes to classes Mondays through Fridays, and when he gets home, Brad is always waiting for him with food and drink and good conversation. They usually sit around and chat while Nate does homework (“Don’t be silly,” Nate scoffs when Brad asks if he’s distracting him. “It’s helping me learn to multitask better.”), but on the weekends, they’ll go out for drinks, or to a movie, or for a walk, or whatever strikes them in the moment. Brad assumes Nate hangs out with his college friends sometime during the week, but he’s never met any of them, and Nate never invites them to join Brad and him for any of their weekend excursions. Those moments belong to the two of them.

Brad still has nightmares, but somehow they seem more manageable. He doesn’t figure out why until about five weeks into his stay when he wakes up with a start, gasping for air and sweating like the devil, only to find Nate sitting beside him and grasping his hand like his life depended on it. Brad’s mouth works noiselessly, then he turns his head in shame and swallows down the tears of embarrassment threatening to break through at any moment. He will not be weak. Nate says nothing, but doesn’t let go of his hand, and Brad eventually drifts off to sleep again.

The next morning, Nate fixes them coffee and they watch the morning news, sharing a plate of scrambled eggs. Brad clears his throat and chances a stab at the elephant in the room.

“How long have you been doing that for me?”

Nate doesn’t look at him; just keeps sipping his coffee and frowning thoughtfully at the Dow Jones report. “Not that long. Just a few nights here and there.” He pauses, drumming his fingertips absentmindedly on the table. “None as bad as yesterday.” 

Brad swallows nervously, picking at his fingernails. “I can explain, if you like, sir,” he offers quietly.

Nate looks at him now, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Nate,” he says, standing up and draining the rest of his mug.

“Pardon?”

“Call me Nate. You can say my name now, you know.” Nate sets his dishes down on the countertop and grabs his book-bag. He pauses at the door to give Brad an affectionate smile. “I’d like for you to call me Nate.” Then he’s gone.

***

Nate knows it’s stupid he’s waited this long to get tested, but he’s had other things on his mind, and at the time, it honestly didn’t occur to him.

He sits in the waiting room, fiddling with his keychain and thumbing through the selection of magazines on the table before him. There’s a painting hanging on the wall; one of those bland, innocuous pieces of art put up to calm patients. In the picture, there’s a man sprawled out lazily on a park bench with a pipe hanging between his teeth. There’s also, inexplicably, a chicken standing on his head. But the man looks comfortable anyway. Nate vaguely wonders why a doctor would put up a painting of a man smoking.

“Nathaniel Fick?”

He looks up to see an older man surveying the room expectantly over the tops of his dark-rimmed spectacles. 

“Right here,” he says, raising a hand and crossing the room in a few quick strides. Best to get this thing over with.

The doctor takes him into a little room and glances over his chart, clucking his tongue annoyingly. Satisfied with his findings, he clears his throat and beams at Nate.

“Well Mr. Fick, I’m pleased to inform you that the blood tests came back negative all across the board. You’re perfectly healthy.”

Nate nods curtly and stands. “Thank you, sir.”

The doctor looks momentarily startled, then smiles again. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He taps on the chart insistently. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to run through your results with you briefly. It will only take a minute.”

Nate looks at him blankly, shrugging on his jacket. “You said I’m clean?”

The smile falters again. “Well....yes.”

“And that I’m perfectly healthy?”

“Again, yes. But-”

“That’s all I want to know,” Nate says, a little more harshly. “This isn’t a check-up, and I’m not looking for a medical release. I came here of my own volition to find out one thing. And now I know, so please step out of my way.”

He walks out.

***

“I got a job.”

Nate pauses in the doorway, lip curling in amusement. “Nice to see you, too,” he teases, yanking his book-bag off his shoulder and slinging up against the wall. He plops down on the sofa beside Brad and nods at the TV. “What are we watching?”

“ _The Running Man_. I got a job,” Brad repeats, fiddling with the remote.

“I heard you the first time. Congratulations.” - he gestures at the screen - “And that movie’s shit.”

“Maybe so, but it’s Friday night, and I’m bored as fuck, and you weren’t here to entertain me.” Brad bites his lip anxiously. They’re keeping it light, but beneath it all, there’s the quiet understanding that this is the first time they’ve verbally broached the subject of Brad’s seemingly indefinite visit.

Nate chews on his own lip, and Brad finds himself staring at it. And consequentially forcing himself to ignore the unpleasantly familiar sensation rising up inside of him.

“I think you should bring more things,” Nate says suddenly, snapping out of his reverie.

Brad jumps and stares at him in bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

Nate looks at him determinedly. “Whenever you stop by your old place,” he starts, and Brad’s eyes widen, “you should pack some more things to bring back with you.”

Brad feels a lump in his throat, which he promptly swallows back into oblivion. Silently cursing himself for turning into such an emotional twat, he grins broadly at Nate. “Okay,” he whispers, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic. “I will.”

Nate smiles at him.

***

Nate doesn’t wake for Brad’s worst nightmare yet, and maybe that’s for the best. Brad’s not sure if he can explain what’s in his mind.

In the dream, he’s standing in the jungle, and it’s sweltering hot and humid and sticky, and his white shirt is clinging to his skin as he struggles to breathe in the thick and musky air. The sounds of forest beasts thrum in the shadows. Leaves wither and fall to the ground before his eyes.

Then the jungle itself rips apart at the seams as the desert wind roars through the canopy and pierces his eardrums like a knife. The trees fall away, and once again he’s stuck out in the sandy dunes of that godforsaken country. And the heat he feels is from the fire in the truck, burning his brethren to a crisp as he stands helpless before the terrible might of nature’s wrath.

The scent of burning flesh fills his nostrils as charred skulls leer at him from within the flames, pustules of blood bursting from the blackened, fraying skin. The shrieking of the wind tortures his ears, and he falls to his knees upon the gritty earth, clamping his hands to his head, begging futilely for sweet mercy. 

Brad doesn’t believe in hell, but if he did, this would be it.

He emerges from that darkling place with a start, heart pounding arrhythmically as he gauges his surroundings. He remembers where he is and tries to get some rest. 

Nate’s still asleep, but Brad can sense his presence in the other room. And somehow, that’s enough.

*** 

Brad accompanies Nate to the grocery store. 

“Which sauce do like?” he inquires, holding up two cans for comparison. “I want to make spaghetti.”

Nate cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning upward. “ _You_  want to make spaghetti? Or you want  _me_  to make spaghetti for you?”

Brad clutches his heart, feigning offense. “I wouldn’t dare suggest the latter, sir. I want to make dinner for you.”

“What did I say about that ‘sir’ shit? I think we’re past that, don’t you?” Then Nate’s face takes on a curious expression. Brad could swear he almost looks shy. “So...you want to cook dinner for me, eh?”

He shrugs. “Well, it’s spaghetti, so it might be a bit of a stretch to refer to it as cooking, but yeah. I’d like to fix your meals sometimes. You’re sharing your home with me, so chipping in now and then is the least I can do, don’t you think?”

Nate looks at him for a moment, chewing on his lip (Brad has to internally remind himself not to stare at Nate’s mouth). He points to the can on the left. “Let’s go with that one. I haven’t tried it before.”

Brad sets it in the cart. “As you wish.”

Nate’s mouth quirks upward. “I look forward to it. You think you can manage not to screw it up?” he teases.

“You’re going to love it,” Brad promises. He smirks. “I am assured of this,” he says slyly, and Nate punches his arm playfully.

***

Exactly two months after Brad first showed up on his doorstep, Nate has his first nightmare.

Afterwards, he comes to in the dark and feels a pair of rough hands wrapped around his naked chest and the warmth of a living body pressed against his back, and a thrill of panic makes his blood run cold. He shivers violently and whispers, “Please, don’t hurt me again.” The body freezes for a moment, then quickly backs off.

“Shit,” Nate hears, and, recognizing the voice, he frowns and turns to see Brad standing above him, shocked comprehension etched across his face.

“Brad?” Nate mutters, sitting up shakily, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Shit,” Brad whispers again, gazing fixedly at the floor.

“What’s going on? Did you have, uh...did you...was it another nightmare?”

Brad looks up again cautiously. “Yes...I mean no. Well, yes. But...it was you. You had a nightmare, and I was...I didn’t know if I should wake you, or if I should just...I dunno...”

Nate listens to him babble for a minute or two, then sighs as he figures it out, and reaches out to grab Brad’s wrist. Brad shuts up.

“It’s okay,” Nate says quietly. He finds he can’t quite meet Brad’s eyes, so he looks down. And that’s a mistake because now he’s staring at Brad’s chest, and he’s holding his wrist, and Nate feels a flush spread across his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Brad chokes, and Nate’s surprised at how broken he sounds. He looks up and sees tear-stained eyes. “I’m so sorry, Nate. I didn’t know that...I didn’t know that had happened to you. I was just...I just wanted to try and help you, like you helped me. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

Nate closes his eyes because,  _fuck_ , Brad knows. And then he opens his eyes and allows himself to breathe because...fuck. Brad  _knows_.

He tugs gently on Brad’s wrist, pulling him back down to the bed. “It’s okay,” he says softly.

Brad sits on the mattress beside him, staring at him like he’s crazy. “No it’s not,” he murmurs, shaking his head. Emboldened, he puts his hands on Nate’s shoulders. His fingertips brush against the tattoo on his back. “That’s not okay. Someone r-...hurt you. And that’s not even fucking close to okay.” His voice sounds strained. “I’m...I’m so sorry.”

Nate’s throat feels dry, but his face is stoic. “Go to sleep,” he says, and somehow, it’s both a command and a request. Either way, Brad lies down next to him, and resting in the presence of the warmth of one another’s bodies, they drift back beyond the veil of slumber.

And there are no more dreams.

***

Nate’s gone to class when Brad wakes up that next morning, and he doesn’t dare bring it up later that evening when Nate gets home. 

It seems momentarily that they’re going to just pretend the whole thing never happened, but when Nate slips into his bedroom around midnight, he stops in the doorway to call, “Come to bed soon.”

Brad ought to feel surprised, but honestly, this just seems kind of inevitable. It’s been a long time coming.

He follows a few minutes later and slips down to his boxers before getting in the bed. Unthinkingly, he wraps his arms around Nate and pulls him flush against his chest. Nate doesn’t say a word.

They lie like that in the for a while, listening to the sound of one another’s breathing, and then Brad asks, “Is this happening too fast?”

Nate sighs. “It doesn’t matter. We both knew it was coming, and now it that it’s here, it would be pretty fucking stupid of us to put it off for the sake of pacing ourselves.”

Brad thinks about that, cautiously allowing his hands to rub circles against the skin of Nate’s back. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t. We won’t.” Nate presses his face into the crook of Brad’s neck, inhaling deeply. “I’m not exactly sure how this happened, or when it started, or where’s it going. But in any case we’re here. And you already know that I’m messed up. And why.” He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “And I know you’re messed up, too. And that you’ll tell me why when you’re ready to talk about it.” He lifts his head to look at Brad’s face, his eyes glimmering in the light from the lantern streaming through the cracks in the blinds. “Since...” - he bites his lip - “Since what happened, you’re the only thing in my life that’s forced me to feel anything other than apathy. You’re what’s holding me together. And I’d like to be that for you, too. If you’ll let me.”

Brad feels a tightness in his chest, and he knows he’s in for the long haul. No going back from this. He stares at Nate’s face, and even in the crushing darkness, he can see the soft smattering of freckles. And he’s suddenly struck by how fucking  _young_  Nate looks.

Feeling emboldened, he presses a soft, chaste kiss to Nate’s forehead. “Okay,” he murmurs.

Nate looks relieved. “Okay.”

***

It’s easier than they expected. Being in a relationship (of sorts).

Partly because they’ve essentially already been in one for a while now, minus the physical component, but also because they’re a perfect match for each other’s psychological imbalances.

Nate can intellectualize his pain, but he doesn’t feel it in his bones. He wants to reconnect with the civilian life he once knew, wants to be a part of this world, but it’s just beyond his reach. He’s not connected.

Brad is.

Brad’s lived his entire life in disconnect; looked at it from a distance, as if detached from his own thoughts and actions. It was a useful tool, while it lasted. It helped him justify what he saw in the desert.

Up until that point when he couldn’t.

Now he’s all broken and jittery, and his mind’s going haywire, and he can’t keep a lid on the emotions he once kept in check without blinking. He’s connected now. He can see the truth: that order and civilization are but a fragile structure perched uneasily atop the ravenous jaws of nature. That luck and misfortune rain down indiscriminately upon the good and the wicked alike. 

A “happy life,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean, is nothing more than a daily reprieve from this knowledge.

And Brad is aware of it constantly.

Nate is his only reprieve, the only thing that makes him feel something other than despair. And Brad is the only thing that makes Nate feel anything at all.

They don’t talk about their problems, and maybe they’re fools for it. Maybe they’re prolonging the inevitable, but they can’t bring themselves to care. There’s a cocoon of happiness buried at the center of the blackness in the world, and they’re content to accept its shelter as long as time allows.

It’s all very low-key for a while. They haven’t fucked, or even kissed. It’s more of a psychological shift in the way they interact; they’re more relaxed in each other’s presence, they sit closer together on the couch during their evening chats. Brad stays in the bedroom now; he keeps his clothes in the dresser with Nate’s, and if one of them occasionally borrows the other’s shirt, it goes unmentioned. They sleep together every night, curled up in the cold and the dark in a tangle of limbs. 

The whole affair remains undefined, unhinged from the security of labels. Whatever this thing that they have is, they’re making it up as they go along. But it’s good.

It’s the best either of them have been in a long time.

***

Brad goes home for Thanksgiving. His parents invite Ray, and Brad’s not entirely sure how that happens or why, but he rolls with it. The turkey is moist and the cider is piping, and it’s good to be back amongst family, even though he’s a little surprise to find that it no longer feels like home.

“So where have you been, man?” Ray says, smiling broadly, tossing Brad a beer as they stand out on the back porch in the growing dusk after the game finishes up and Brad’s dad finishes cursing at the TV set. (“Fucking shit-box!” he grumbles.) “You seriously fell off the grid, man. I asked your ma, but she knows even less than I do. Just that you’re living out on the East Coast, and you’ve got a job of some sort.” 

Brad nods, popping the cap off the bottle and taking a hearty swig. “This is true.”

Ray stares at him quizzically. “Yeah...and? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

“What more do you want?” Brad shrugs, licking foam off the rim. “It’s not all that interesting, to be honest. Apart from my feelings.” His lips curl teasingly. “Surely you don’t want to dive into that goddam abyss, do you?”

Ray makes a sort of helpless gesture and rolls his eyes. “Homes, I’m telling you, it’s seriously like you just up and fucking vanished off the face of the earth. Now, I’m not one to interfere with other families’ business, but-”

“No, of course not,” Brad grumbles.

“ _But_ ,” Ray reiterates, with more force, “I’ve got to say, man, I think it’s really strange that you haven’t kept up communication with...well, fucking  _anyone_ , as far as I’m aware. I’m not trying to be a whiny cunt or anything, I’m just...fuck. I’m worried, alright?”

Brad shrugs again. “Don’t be,” he says curtly, honestly.

Ray groans, frustrated. “Bro...”

“I promise you don’t need to be worried, Ray,” Brad says firmly. “I know it doesn’t seem that way, and I won’t lie to you and say that everything’s okay. But things are better now than they were before.”

Ray studies his face for a beat or two, squinting as though he can read Brad’s mind if he tries hard enough, and then he sighs, taking a sip of his own beer. “Alright. I’ll take your word for it. You’re not a child.” 

Brad grunts in agreement. They’re both quiet for a short spell, listening to the nightlife thrumming in the deep. Brad drains the rest of his beer and sets it down on the railing. He takes a chance.

“I’m living with Nate Fick,” he says, not quite cooly enough to be casual, but his voice doesn’t waver. So that’s something.

Ray draws in a quick, sharp breath, eyes widening in surprise. His mouth works silently for second or two. Then, “I see. That’s...uh...that’s cool, man.”

“It’s not how you’re thinking,” Brad interjects, turning to look at Ray dead-on, keeping his face impassive. “Not exactly.”

Ray studies his face, drumming on the rail uncomfortably. “But it’s not... _not_  like that either, is it?”

Brad huffs a mirthless chuckle. “No,” he agrees. “It’s not  _not_  like that either.”

“Hmm...” Ray drains his own beer, smacking it down on harshly. “Christ, Brad...”

“Don’t start,” Brad warns, shaking his head. “I’m really not in the fucking mood.”

Ray pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s got a severe headache all of the sudden. “The LT? Really?”

Brad opens his mouth to retort, then snaps it shut, looking bemused. “That’s what bothers you about it?” he asks slowly, uncertainly.

Ray glances up with a scowl, somewhat indignantly. “Please. I don’t give a fuck where you stick it, man. I might joke, or whatever, but I’m not going to give you serious shit for something like that. We’ve been to war together, man.” He cracks his knuckles, brooding over the edge of the railing. “But that said...Fick? Seriously?”

Brad snorts, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching. “Yeah...” he murmurs. They’re awkwardly silent for a minute, then he adds, “But I haven’t stuck anything anywhere. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh, fucking Jesus, Brad,” Ray groans. “I don’t need to know about that shit.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“You’re twisting my words.” Ray straightens up, jerking his head towards the house. “Enough of this. You wanna go inside?”

“Nah, not yet. I’m just going to hang out here for a while.”

“Okay, okay.” Ray pauses at the door, tapping thoughtfully on the glass. He looks back. “So is it...is it serious, or...?”

Brad turns, studying Ray’s expression. “I don’t know what it is,” he says honestly. “We’re just...” - he thinks for a second - “...we’re what we both need right now. Beyond that, I don’t know where it’s going."

Ray nods, digesting that. He spares Brad a brief smile. “I am glad you’re doing better. And you know you can trust me with anything, when it counts.”

Brad smiles back. “I know,” he replies, making sure Ray can hear the gratitude in his voice.

***

Not for the first time in his life, Nate is on poor terms with his parents (over some stupid argument he can barely remember), so he decides to stay at the apartment while Brad’s away instead of going home.

He has dreams.

There’s a tight red tent billowing around him, and he’s sealed inside like a fetus in an embryonic sac. He wishes he had a knife as he tears at the walls with short-clipped nails, digging into the fabric, ripping and tearing and losing patience. The gossamer shell contracts around him and now he’s falling through an opening onto the cold, hard earth, and he’s wet and naked in the vast, dark emptiness of the world 

It’s a vacuum.

The crushing silence constricts his ragged breath, and the looming shadows on the distant horizon pay no heed to his discomfort. 

Then:

Icy hands around his throat. Fingertips drifting downward along his frozen spine. Bent over in the open, and the cold is all around him. 

And then within him. Pistoning, writhing, and thrusting, and twisting, and shooting lurid, bilious liquid deep inside. And the pain is a dagger, and his cries of agony cut through the silence, and the world goes red as the vessels of crimson burst at the seams, and the redness drips from every pore of his slick, wriggling, diseased, and tortured flesh.

Like needles tap-dancing on the bone beneath the skin, the beast erupts from its prison, leaping from his back in a manic frenzy. And the rage cannot be contained, and the venomous sword swings and stings, and it slays all in its path with its poison.

And long after Nate wakes, curled up on the floorboards, he still swears he can hear the scuttling of the scorpion somewhere in the silence.

***

Nate picks him up at the airport, and being an idiot, Brad immediately blurts it out once they get in the car.

“I told Ray about us.”

Nate just stares at him for beat, and Brad wants to crawl under rock and die (because what the  _fuck_?), and then he laughs, full and sincere, and Brad breathes a sigh of relief.

“You’re a fucking mess, you know that?” Nate says fondly, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

Brad smacks his hand away, but he’s smiling too. “So I’ve been told. I’m working on it, though.”

There’s a gleam in Nate’s eyes that Brad hasn’t seen there before, and suddenly he’s leaning in closer, and Brad’s breath catches in his chest. 

“Don’t work too hard,” Nate whispers softly, his face inches away. “I don’t want to be the only one of us who’s fucked up.”

That shouldn’t be sexy at all, but Brad finds that he can’t stop staring at Nate’s fucking mouth. And then Nate kisses him.

It’s chaste and gentle, but it lasts for a good several seconds, and it leaves Brad lightheaded. And then Nate pulls away with smirk and starts the car, and Brad just sort of stares at him. 

“We should do more of that,” he says weakly, face hot and flushed.

Nate pulls into drive. “Okay,” he agrees. “I can do that.”

***

There’s an old theater-house by the bar they so often frequent on the weekends. Brad stops by on a whim one afternoon while Nate’s in class, and the next evening, he drags Nate with him to see it for himself. 

It’s a lovely old building with cushioned seats and an actual classic film projector instead of the new digital hardware. There’s an old, grainy quality to the images flickering on the screen that recalls a time long since past and forgotten by most. That’s probably why it appeals so much to them.

It’s privately-owned, and the management has a highly specific taste; usually older classics, which turns off most patrons. Brad and Nate don’t mind, though, and every Friday night, they find themselves sitting together in the back, watching the lives of others unfold before them in motion pictures.

They go to see  _Nashville_ , and they look into the characters’ eyes and see the death of American idealism. Brad looks over at Nate, who’s smiling softly.

Perhaps he sees something of himself.

Afterwards, they’re walking back, and Brad asks Nate what his plans are for the holiday season.

“I should probably go see my parents. I’ve gone too long without talking to them,” he sighs. “It’s better to patch things up now than to wait it out and let everything fester.”

Brad nods, shoving his hands in his coat pockets and shivering in the wind. “That’s probably smart.”

Nate eyes him carefully. “Yeah,” he says. “But I’d rather spend Christmas with you, if you’re free.”

Brad reaches over and squeezes his hand gratefully. “I’d like that, too.” He smiles. "Besides, I'm a Hebrew heathen, remember? I never have plans for Christmas."

***

They make short work of contemptuously disregarding the holiday traditions.

“Do you want to get a tree?” Brad asks, washing out his coffee mug.

“No, I’m strapped for cash as it is,” Nate responds from the general direction of the couch. “Besides, they have a tree set up on campus. A big one. I’ve seen it every day since Thanksgiving.” He pops his head over the armrest. “Are we exchanging gifts?” he asks distastefully.

Brad grunts noncommittally. “Not if you don’t want to. My mother always gives me three sweaters since she can never remember my size. You can have whichever one fits you.”

“So thoughtful,” Nate teases, throwing a pillow at him.

Brad dodges its, smirking. “Okay then. How about I buy us some high-priced alcohol, and we can spend Christmas Eve getting wasted?”

Nate hums. “Liking it so far. What about Christmas day?”

“We could always sleep in. Go out for lunch. Maybe catch a movie in the afternoon?”

Nate smiles appreciatively. “Sounds brilliant. Let’s do it.”

***

The holidays come and go, and that’s really all there is to it. There’s no nostalgia for childhood or newfound romantic spark, and in all honesty, it just feels like any other day. But they’re together, and that’s enough to distract them from their shackles, if only temporarily.

Nate goes to group therapy a few times. It’s his last-ditch effort to force himself to care about this thing.

There aren’t many available just for men. Most guys don’t want to admit to something like this. But Nate doesn’t care; he signs up for a unisex group. Fourteen participants plus the counselor, and there’s one other guy. A moody 18-year-old kid who doesn’t talk much. Says his mom is making him come.

It’s exactly the way Nate expects. A lot of crying and sniffling, and comforting pats on the back, and it’s-not-your-fault pep talk psychobabble. It’s fucking useless.

He doesn’t speak up until his fourth and final session. The counselor smiles at him, trying weirdly to project sadness and encouragement at the same time. 

“Would you like to share with the group, Nate?” she asks, voice low and gentle. “It might be useful to hear a man’s perspective on this type of trauma.”

Nate’s jaw tenses and he wills himself not to lose his patience. “It wasn’t anyone I knew,” he says tersely, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He directs his focus at the counselor ( _Christine_ , a voice in the back of his head reminds him). “Just a stranger. He caught me coming out of a bar and pulled me into an alley. It was over pretty quickly.”

Most of the women look empathetic, a few of them even have tears in their eyes. But a couple look disgusted, as though they find it pathetic that a man couldn’t defend himself from such an attack, would allow such a thing to happen to him. Nate detachedly registers that he can’t be bothered to give a fuck what they think.

“Thank you, Nate,” Christine says encouragingly, smiling pityingly, and Nate barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the soppy look in her eyes. “I know that can’t be easy to share.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the circle, but Nate interjects, “Actually it is.” 

Christine arches an eyebrow. She drums her fingernails against her clipboard, that idiotic, pitying expression frozen on her stupid face. “You don’t have to pretend not to feel, Nate,” she condescends, as if reciting from a fucking pamphlet. “You’re in a safe place.”

Nate sighs deeply, standing up abruptly and shrugging on his jacket. “Yeah. Whatever you say.”

Christine straightens in her chair. “You can’t run away from your pain. Believe me, we’ve all tried, and it never does any good.”

He fixes her with a contemptuous glare, and she finally shuts the fuck up.

“I’m not running from anything,” he says calmly. “If anything, I’ve tried running towards my pain. I’ve tried to dig it up for months, and it’s just not there. I know it wasn’t my fault, and I want the guy brought to justice. I hate him, in my mind.” He taps on his skull with a rueful smile. “In there. I just don’t feel anything. And I’m not going to sit around anymore listening to you all blow your noses and wallowing in the fucking past.”

He doesn’t look back to see their faces, but feels a perverse twinge of satisfaction anyway.

***

Brad surprises Nate in the Harvard library with a hot cup of coffee.

“You are the fucking best,” Nate whispers, taking a greedy sip. “Ouch!” he hisses, waving a hand in front of his mouth.

“Careful, it’s hot, idiot,” Brad whispers back, smiling fondly as he drops into a chair beside him, patting the cushioned armrests appreciatively. “So, how’s the studying going?”

“Slow and dull,” Nate grunts, closing his book. “And now that you’re here, I’m not going to get any work done, am I?” Brad grins at him wolfishly. “That’s what I thought,” Nate sighs. “What are we doing?”

Brad tosses a folded up newspaper in his lap. “ _2001: A Space Odyssey_. 4:00 showing. You game?”

Nate raises his eyebrows skeptically. “Didn’t take you for a Kubrick fan.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Brad fires back, as if that’s an answer. 

“I have,” Nate says, tossing the newspaper back. “You might get bored.”

Brad mock-pouts. “Oh, come on, asshole.”

Nate tries to keep a straight face and fails miserably. “Alright, you whiny bitch. Let’s go.”

Brad’s grin widens, and he leans over to place a sloppy kiss on Nate’s cheek.

The movie is long and slow, but Brad is entranced. The depths of space appeal to his dissatisfaction with life on earth. There is comfort in the possibility of something beyond the stars, far away from the horror of the desert [the howling wind].

When the Star Child emerges in the final scene, he feels a sense of wondrous elation; an optimism foreign to the cool sensibilities of his former life.

And then he looks over at Nate’s face and sees a terrifying stoicism there. It’s the look of a man trapped within a prison of his own making. And Brad knows that unlike himself, Nate can no longer see the beauty in the unknown. It is as empty to him as the tangible world is terrifying to Brad.

The credits roll.

Nate closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. A sigh of resignation. He opens his eyes and smiles forcedly at Brad. 

“Ready to go?” he asks quietly.

***

Brad’s not sure when the ticking starts, but it’s getting perceptibly louder as the weeks go by, dropping off the calendar with increasing vigor. It’s the intonation of the death clock. Nate’s semester is winding to a close, and Brad is preparing for the end of...whatever this is 

In another time and another place, he could have dealt with this knowledge like a man. Could have swallowed his pain and moved on with his life. Back when he was the Iceman.

But whoever he is in this stage of existence can’t fucking deal.

What surprises him is that he’s not so much worried about his own emotional health as he is about the prospect of losing Nate. Somewhere in the middle of his desperation for comfort, genuine feelings emerged.

He calls Ray, voice shaking.

“What’s going on?” He sounds alarmed on the other end of the phone. “Brad? Talk to me, man. What’s going on?”

Brad makes a soft, strangled noise. He runs a hand through his hair. “You asked if it was serious,” he manages to spit out. “Well, it is now. Fuck...it is now.”

Ray is momentarily silent, then he whistles. “Woah. You’ve got bad, don’t you?”

Brad chuckles mirthlessly. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He grinds his teeth together in frustration. “Please talk me through this before I do something stupid.”

“What are you thinking of doing?” There’s the sound of a can opening, and Brad can easily picture Ray sitting in an armchair with the phone pressed to his ear, a dripping beer grasped lazily between his fingers.

“I’m not exactly sure. I’m just afraid that this is all going to just come to a stop when...you know...”

Ray hums quizzically, then goes, “Oh. Semester’s almost over, right?”

Brad’s throat feels tight. The ticking grows louder in the back of his subconscious. “Yeah. Not much longer now.”

It’s quiet on the line for a minute, then, “He’s not just going to throw you out, dude. LT’s not like that. Besides, I thought everything has been going well. Or, at least I assumed so, since you haven’t told me otherwise. Did something happen?”

“No. Well, yes. But nothing like you’re thinking.” Brad closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Over Thanksgiving, I told you that I didn’t know what this was yet...”

“Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath. “Well, now I know. Or, rather, I know what I want it to be. What I hope it is.”

Ray thinks about that, then inquires, “And you don’t think he wants what you want?”

Brad starts pacing agitatedly. “I don’t think anything. But yes, I’m afraid of that.”

Another long pause. Ray sighs deeply. “Look, man. I’m really just shooting in the dark here. Everything that I know about this situation is based off of what you’ve told me. Which hasn’t been that much. But even so, I think you’ve got to deal with this before it goes any further. Otherwise, it’s just going to be worse if it ends up going to shit.”

Brad knocks his head against the wall. He hates it when Ray is right. “Yeah,” he mutters gruffly.

“And Brad,” Ray adds carefully. Yet another long pause.

“Yes?” Brad presses him.

“If it...if it  _does_  go the way you’re afraid it might...well, I’m here to help. You know that, right?”

Brad manages a small smile. “Yeah, I know.”

He hangs up.

And suddenly he feels a sense of peace. A sense of calm that has evaded him ever since he last laid eyes on the desert. A certain level of control.

***

Nate’s last exam is on a Tuesday at noon. He finishes early, hands in his test, and slips out quietly before any of the other quick finishers can invite him out for a drink.

He goes straight home, and Brad’s waiting for him, sitting on the couch.

It’s not his usual stance. He’s upright and purposeful instead of kicked back and comfortably lazy. And the television is off. He looks up when Nate walks through the door, jaw set and determined.

“Hey,” he says.

Nate nods tiredly. “Hey yourself.” His eyes flicker over Brad’s posture. “We’re doing this now?”

Brad nods. “Yeah. We’re doing it now.”

Nate points to the bedroom. “Let me set my stuff down and wash up.”

He runs cold water in the bathroom sink, splashing it on his face, hoping the icy touch will counteract the nervous heat his body is producing. He looks at himself in the mirror blankly.

He’s not sure what he expected to happen. Not that he thought Brad would stick around forever, but the thought that it’s all about to end is like a dagger in his heart. He grips the sides of the sink, pressing his forehead against the mirror, steadying himself. He has to face this, no matter how painful it might be.

Brad’s still rigid on the couch when he returns. He sits down beside him, not meeting his eyes.

They’re both quiet.

Then:

“I never thought I’d leave the Corps,” Brad says. His voice is a bit strained, but it doesn’t quaver. “I hated the chain of command, apart from you, and the vicious cycle of it all grew wearying from time to time. But I never doubted the importance of what we were doing.”

“Yes you did,” Nate interjects softly. He glances up briefly. “You did.”

“Okay,” Brad relents. “Maybe I did. But whatever thoughts were in my head, I was able to keep them separate from my emotions. Point being, I may have understood just how cruel the world is for a long time, but I haven’t felt it in my bones. In my marrow. Not until this past year.”

Nate isn’t looking at him, but he knows Brad can tell that he’s listening intently. “What happened to you?” he asks simply. It’s an echo of that night months ago when Brad showed up on his doorstep.

Brad shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that, Nate. It wasn’t an...event, or anything.” The  _Not like your situation_  goes unspoken. “It didn’t hit me in any particular moment. It happened gradually over time. It was a slow process. And it’s broken me, in more ways than one. I couldn’t stay, couldn’t keep doing whatever the hell we were supposed to be doing out there.”

Sitting up straighter, Nate finally turns to look at him. “When did the process start, then?”

Brad doesn’t miss a beat. “When you left.”

Nate inhales sharply, closing his eyes. “Brad...” he warns, hating the nervousness in the sound. He feels the pressure and the warmth of Brad’s hand on his shoulder, and he opens his eyes. The unadulterated adoration on Brad’s face practically shatters him right then and there.

“I’m in love with you, Nate,” he says, and it’s not a confession. It’s just a quiet statement of truth, and Nate isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to breathe again. “I have been for a long time, I think. It’s just taken me a while to pinpoint that amidst everything else I’ve been feeling.”

Nate swallows, feeling a tightness in his chest. “Brad,” he says again, even weaker than the first time.

Brad doesn’t flinch. He just reaches out to cup Nate’s cheek, stroking the skin gently with his thumb. His face is so full of love, it’s beautiful and terrifying, and it’s almost too much to bear. 

“Believe me, it wasn’t easy for me to say that,” Brad whispers lowly. “I’m scared shitless that I’ve just fucked this up beyond repair. But it had to be said. So if you hate me, I’ll just-”

Nate makes a sort of strangled sound and cuts him off with a kiss that’s deeper and longer and more desperate than any they’ve shared before. Brad groans into it, allowing his hands to snake around Nate’s back and draw him in closer. Nate scrambles forward, and now he’s on Brad’s lap, fingers ensnared in his hair, kissing him like he’s gasping for oxygen. Brad’s sucking on Nate’s lip, rolling his hips forward, eliciting an appreciative moan.

Brad propels them both forward forcefully, clambering on top of Nate and latching himself onto his neck. Nate’s breath hitches and he mumbles something indiscernible. Brad pulls back. 

“What’s that?” he asks breathlessly, running his hands over Nate’s chest like he’ll never get another chance to touch him.

“Since Iraq,” Nate replies, eyes blown wide with lust. “I’ve been in love with you since Iraq. I lied when I said I wasn’t sure when it started. I can’t remember not feeling like this. I figured I could only have you if you were as fucked up as me. I never thought you’d want anything other than comfort.”

Brad lets that information soak in, feeling his heart swell in his chest. “Since Iraq?” he says wonderingly, running a hand through Nate’s short-clipped hair. “That long? Jesus, sir. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Nate gives him a sharp look, and it’s so much like the old him that Brad can’t help but grin. “That would have been an idiotic decision on my part. We were in a war zone. And don’t call me sir. That’s just creepy at this point.”

“Roger that, Nate.” And with that said, Brad dives back in, slipping his hands under Nate’s shirt and yanking it up over his head. “It was getting in the way,” he explains cockily, throwing it on the floor. He buries his face in the crook of Nate’s neck, running his tongue across the heated skin.

Nate groans ecstatically as Brad trails kisses down his chest and belly. “Let’s be fair about this,” he murmurs, hands clawing at the hem of Brad’s shirt, pulling it up and over and tossing it aside. Nate’s eyes roam over Brad’s body blatantly, now that he’s sure it’s okay to look. “Jesus Christ...”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Brad whispers in his ear, hands working at the button on Nate’s jeans. “You’re not so bad yourself, sir.”

Nate fists a hand in Brad’s hair, pulling his head back forcefully to glare at him. “I mean it, Brad. Call me that again and there’ll be hell to pay,” he snaps, but there’s a light dancing in his eyes, and he pulls Brad in roughly for a deep, sloppy kiss, and Brad returns it with equal enthusiasm.

Somewhere in the middle of this, they stumble into the bedroom and lose the rest of their clothes. And then Brad’s got Nate on his back, and he’s lifting his legs and getting ready to go the distance. Unthinkingly, he asks Nate if he’s ever done this before. Then he remembers, and he looks horrified at himself. But Nate just laughs, harsh and bitter, and tells Brad to shut up and kiss him.

And then it’s all twisting limbs and interlocking joints and pores filling with sweat and tongues lashing out for a taste of every inch of fiery skin and fingers tangled in hair and yanking and pulling and pistoning and thrusting into one another. And there’s the slick feel of hands on quivering flesh and gasping and panting and whispered promises cutting through the pheromone-scented air as they gently enter into that brink of oblivion. Then white hot release.

And then they’re basking in the afterglow, fingers straying idly by their sides, touching each other no longer with vigor or desperation or longing or need, but with wonder and love and affection and trust.

“How could you ever think I wouldn’t want all of you?” Brad asks softly, stroking the back of Nate’s neck.

“Things like this don’t work out for the best,” Nate replies, touching Brad’s chest absentmindedly. “Not usually. Not for me.”

Brad pulls him close, kissing the top of his head. “It will this time. I won’t let us fuck this up.”

Nate breathes deeply, pressing his face into the crook of Brad’s neck. “It’s been good so far. But it seems like you’re back to your old self now, and I don’t know how you’re going to be able to put up with me once I’m the only one who’s damaged.”

Brad pulls back so Nate can see his face. “You are not damaged. You’re just shell-shocked.” He continues to stroke Nate’s neck. “Apart from the fact that I’m disgustingly head-over-heels for you, I want you around because you’re just about the only thing left that makes it worth it to get up in the morning.” He’s smiling lightly, but his tone is sincere. “And I’m not back to my old self, Nate. I never will be. I’m just beginning to learn how to manage living with who I am now, that’s all. I’m getting a handle on life after wartime, and you will too.”

Nate closes his eyes, thinking quietly to himself. “I still can’t feel bad about it,” he confesses. “The rape,” he adds. Because that’s what it  _is_. They’ve been avoiding the term to spare themselves from awkwardness, but that’s what it fucking is. “I just wish I could just cry and be done with it. Or at least get angry and punch a hole through the wall, or something.”

“You will,” Brad promises, and he sounds so sincere, Nate almost wants to laugh. “It might take a long time, and I know it’s frustrating to wait it out, but you’ll have me right there with you. So whenever you’re ready, you won’t have to suffer alone.”

Nate kisses him softly. “I love you,” he murmurs. The  _thank you_  goes without saying.

They lie there intertwined, slowly drifting off into unconsciousness. And for once, the darkness is soothing instead of oppressive.

***

“What did I tell you, homes?” Ray says, and Brad can practically see the smug grin on his stupid face. “What did I say?”

“Technically, you said that you’d be there for me if it went south,” Brad retorts into the receiver, stirring his coffee with a toothpick. “Which hardly merits an I-told-you-so.”

“Hey, I also said I didn’t think he would kick you out. And he didn’t!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Brad says, trying to sound annoyed even though he’s grinning from ear to ear. “Don’t make me describe the sex in graphic detail.”

Ray groans. “Jesus. Stop putting images in my head, dude. I don’t want to think about that.”

“Whatever. You know you love it.” Brad looks up at the sound of the key in the door. “Hey, I’ve got to go, Nate just got back.”

“Alright, alright. Tell him I’m happy for you two and your gay-ass love.” Ray’s voice takes on an affectionate tone. “And I really am, Brad. Even if I don’t want the details of your fornication seared into my brain.”

“Will do. Talk soon, man.” Brad hangs up and hurries over to help Nate with the grocery bags. “How are you?” he asks, stealing a kiss as he grabs the milk.

“Doing fine.” Nate tosses his keys on the countertop. “Was that Ray?”

“Yes it was,” Brad says, putting his hands on Nate’s waist and pulling him close.

Nate smirks. “And what does he have to say about...whatever he might have something to say about?”

Brad smiles down at him. “He says he’s happy for us.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Nate’s eyes dance with mischief. “So what’s on your schedule for the rest of the day? Do you want to go out to a movie? They’re showing  _Chinatown_  down at the theater-house.” He slips his hand under Brad’s shirt, rubbing his stomach teasingly. “Or would you rather stay in?”

Brad pretends to think about it, chewing on his lower lip. “How about we stay in... _then_  go out. And then stay in some more when we get back?”

Nate leans up to kiss him. “Sounds good to me.”

***

Brad never asks about Nate’s tattoo, even though he knows the reason behind its existence is painfully different than the reason behind his own.

He knows that some things are too personal to share. With anyone.

***

They don’t make a big fuss over coming out. It’s not really in their nature to stoop to dramatic displays. Ray lets it slip to Walt by accident, but Walt is understanding and accepting and not entirely surprised. Apart from that, they entrust the information to their close relatives (which goes much smoother than expected, albeit with a few bumps in the road), and decide to let everyone else find out by their own means.

What they have belongs to them. Everything else is tangential.

***

Five years after Brad showed up on Nate’s doorstep, Nate’s parents get a divorce.

When Nate tells him, Brad asks if it has anything to do with his and Nate’s relationship. It doesn’t.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me, either,” Nate says matter-of-factly. “It’s not anyone’s fault. They just drifted apart. It just happens sometimes. They’re probably better off for it.”

Brad is silent for the rest of the evening. When they get into bed that night he tries for a joke. “If it’s any consolation, I promise I’ll never marry you.”

Nate laughs, but he recognizes the insecurity behind the humor. He presses a kiss to Brad’s temple. “We’re not going to drift apart,” he murmurs in his ear. “We’re bound, you and I. You’re stuck with me forever.” 

There’s laughter in his eye and a smirk tweaking at the corner of his lips, but the promise is sincere, and he makes sure Brad knows it.

No turning back.

***

There is a howling wind in the desert. 

It makes a mockery of human dignity, ripping through the lives of all the unfortunate without mercy or restraint. It leaves in its wake a path of destruction unmatched in the course of these men’s lifetimes.

But it is no longer the only sound Brad Colbert hears. Even louder are the nails of of Nathaniel Fick, drumming on the pages of his latest novel. The squeak of the tap and the roar of the water in their shared morning showers. The soft breathing that accompanies the rise and fall of Nate’s chest in the sanctuary of the night.

The ticking of the death clock soldiers on, but its intonation is a low price to pay for the warmth and happiness they have somehow stumbled across in the crushing darkness of the cold, empty universe.

Brad doesn’t believe in God, and if Nate did at some point, he certainly doesn’t now. But regardless of whence-ever this undeserved blessing came, they feel immense gratitude for their unbelievable luck. When Brad’s father dies of cancer and the abyss looms ever closer in Brad’s nightmares, Nate is his saving grace. And when Nate’s heart finally catches up to his mind, and the memories of that once inconsequential day rip a hole in the fabric of his spirit, Brad is there to catch him when he falls.

Drifting through this waking life like riders in the storm, they press ahead into the dying light.

The death clock ticks on, but there is a fire:

Somewhere out in the cold and the dark.

***

_Be gentle, sky, and let me rest -_

_These bones are worn - they lack the zest_

_Of flesh in life - they're marrowless! -_

_Their arid surface, nakedness! -_

_Betrayed in death; no sheen of red_

_From coursing blood; and blue was shed_

_Upon the fading out of eyes_

_That cased the world and gave disguise_

_To what my deepest thoughts had been -_

_But now I'm done with all I've seen._

-Mark R. Slaughter

 

The End.


End file.
